what I could, and they accepted my explanations gracefully and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they need, or think they need, my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim it."
"You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged.
He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.
"No," he said, "I shall not go."
That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock, examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him towards its close. The agricultural details in which he was accustomed to take so much interest had fallen a little flat. He even found himself wondering, after one of his best drives, whether it was well for the mind of a man to be so utterly engrossed by the flight of that small white ball towards its destination. More than once lately, despite his half-angry rejection of them, certain memories, half-wistful, half-tantalising, from the world of which he now saw so little, had forced their way in upon his attention. This morning the lines of that brief note seemed to stand out before him all the time with a curious vividness. In a way he played the hypocrite to himself. He professed to have found that summons disturbing and unwelcome, yet his thoughts were continually occupied with it. He knew well that what would follow was inevitable, but he made no sign.
Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a small coronet, he read as follows:
"Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten o'clock."
In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words:
"To meet friends."
Peter Ruff put the card upon the fire and went out for a morning's rabbit shooting with his keeper. When he returned, luncheon was ready, but Violet was absent. He rang the bell.
"Where is your mistress, Jane?" he asked the parlourmaid.
The girl had no idea. Mrs. Ruff had left for the village several hours ago. Since then she had not been seen.
Peter Ruff ate his luncheon alone and understood. The afternoon wore on, and at night he travelled up to London. He knew better than to waste time by purposeless inquiries. Instead he took the nine o'clock train the next morning to Paris.
It was a chamber of death into which he was ushered—dismal, yet, of its sort, unique, marvellous. The room itself might have been the sleeping apartment of an Empress—lofty, with white panelled walls adorned simply with gilded lines; with high windows, closely curtained now so that neither sound nor the light of day might penetrate into the room. In the middle of the apartment, upon a canopy bedstead which had once adorned a king's palace, lay Madame de Maupassim. Her face was already touched with the finger of death, yet her eyes were undimmed and her lips unquivering. Her hands, covered with rings, lay out before her upon the lace coverlid. Supported by many pillows, she was issuing her last instructions with the cold precision of the man of affairs who makes the necessary arrangements for a few days' absence from his business.
Peter Ruff, who had not even been allowed sufficient time to change his travelling clothes, was brought without hesitation to her bedside. She looked at him in silence for a moment with a cold glitter in her eyes.
"You are four days late, Monsieur Peter Ruff," she remarked. "Why did you not obey your first summons?"
"Madame," he answered, "I thought that there must be a misunderstanding. Four years ago I gave notice to the council that I had married and retired into private life. A country farmer is of no further use to the world."
The woman's thin lip curled.
"From death and the Double Four," she said, "there is no resignation which counts. You are as much our creature to-day as I am the creature of the disease which is carrying me across the threshold of death."
Peter Ruff remained silent. The woman's words seemed full of dread significance. Besides, how was it possible to contradict the dying?
"It is upon the unwilling of the world," she continued, speaking slowly, yet with extraordinary distinctness, "that its greatest honours are often conferred. The name of my successor has been balloted for secretly. It is you, Peter Ruff, who have been chosen."
This time he was silent, because he was literally bereft of words. This woman was dying, and fancying strange things! He looked from one to the other of the stern, pale faces of those who were gathered around her bedside. Seven of them there were—the same seven. At that moment their eyes were all focused upon him. Peter Ruff shrank back.
"Madame," he murmured, "this cannot be."
Her lips twitched as though she would have smiled.
"What we have decided," she said, "we have decided. Nothing can alter that—not even the will of Mr. Peter Ruff."
"I have been out of the world for four years," Peter Ruff protested. "I have no longer ambitions, no longer any desire——"
"You lie!" the woman interrupted. "You lie, or you do yourself an injustice! We gave you four years, and, looking into your face, I think that it has been enough. I think that the weariness is there already. In any case, the charge which I lay upon you in these, my last moments, is one which you can escape by death only!"
A low murmur of voices from those others repeated her words.
"By death only!"
Peter Ruff opened his lips, but closed them again without speech. A wave of emotion seemed passing through the room. Something strange was happening. It was Death itself which had come amongst them.
A morning journalist wrote of the death of Madame eloquently and with feeling. She had been a broadminded aristocrat, a woman of brilliant intellect and great friendships, a woman of whose inner life during the last ten or fifteen years little was known, yet who, in happier times, might well have played a great part in the history of her country.
Peter Ruff drove back from the cemetery with the Marquis de Sogrange, and for the first time since the death of Madame serious subjects were spoken of.
"I have waited patiently," he declared, "but there are limits. I want my wife."
Sogrange took him by the arm and led him into the library of the house in the Rue de St. Quintaine. The six men who were already there waiting rose to their feet.
"Gentlemen," the Marquis said, "is it your will that I should be spokesman?"
There was a murmur of assent. Then Sogrange turned towards his companion, and something new seemed to have crept into his manner—a solemn, almost threatening note.
"Peter Ruff," he continued, "you have trifled with the one organisation in this world which has never allowed itself to have liberties taken with it or to be defied. Men who have done greater service than you have died for the disobedience of a day. You have been treated leniently, accordingly to the will of Madame. According to her will, and in deference to the position which you must now take up amongst us, we still treat you as no other has ever been treated by us. The Double Four admits your leadership and claims you for its own."
